


non, je ne regrette rien

by zhennie



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death In Dream, Dreamsharing, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 14:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhennie/pseuds/zhennie
Summary: Oikawa Tooru is a dreamer, but Iwaizumi Hajime is his dream. What does a dreamer do when he loses his dream?(an inception au.)





	

Oikawa has a gun clutched in his hand and a wind up toy in his other hand. His face is wet, and his hands tremble, tightening before loosening—and then he panics, eyes snapping open as his hands shake even harder. He closes them, desperately, but finds that he only has the strength to close one hand at a time. The key of the tiny Godzilla presses into his palm. The gun slips out of his reach.    
  
A shadow slips over Oikawa, and he tilts his head up to see, a smile spreading onto his face. 

"Hajime," he breathes, and Oikawa can't pretend that there isn’t a little longing in his voice. It’s only here that he lets himself break, that he lets himself be the mess that he is.

"Tooru," Hajime replies, and leans forward, as Oikawa closes his eyes and their foreheads touch  gently. But instead of  warmth, he meets the cold metal of what Oikawa can only assume is the barrel of a gun. 

He should have kept the gun. Or not. Would it have made any difference?

"You said we would be together," Hajime says, his voice soft. It's wrong, Oikawa thinks. Hajime's soft voice doesn't belong in dreams. It belongs in the real world, in quiet nights in penthouse suites, on top of glass coffee tables with Oikawa's back arching off it, paper and pencils scattered over the floor around them, Hajime's fingers wound into Oikawa's hair. 

"I lied, Hajime," Oikawa replies, his eyes still closed. He feels, more than he hears, Hajime's silent laugh. 

"God," Hajime says, and with that one word, everything changes. Oikawa feels the air still, before the wind starts up around them, and Hajime’s voice is hard now, bitter, like the night before, like the night they had fought and gone to bed angry at each other, woken up angry and fallen back asleep angry, "assholes like you don't deserve to live." Hajime's voice rises, quickens, and Oikawa squeezes his eyes shut as Hajime draws back, presses the gun against his head harder and then—

Oikawa wakes up in his bed with a gasp, a sharp inhale of air so cold it is like he is cutting himself open from the inside out a thousand and one times. He laughs, and buries his head in his hands. His hands shake, and he glances at his bedtable, on which sits a wind-up Godzilla toy. Oikawa reaches over, silk sheets silent as he picks up the tiny dinosaur, turning the key once, twice, thrice. He sets it down on the table once more, and it makes a sputtering noise, before falling silent and still.    
  
Silent, and still, just like Hajime.    
  
Oikawa laughs again, voice shaky, his face stained with tears.    
  
He is alone.    
  
\--  
  
"Hi!" Bokuto Koutarou, their mark, says, standing in front of their table with a tentative but bright grin. Oikawa sees Akaashi freeze, spoon halfway to his lips. He watches, amused, as a drop of melted ice cream falls, splattering on the table and marking it with a perfect pink dot. If this weren’t a potentially very dangerous situation, Oikawa might have laughed. As it were, though, it’s imperative that they get Bokuto away from the table as soon as possible, before he recognizes that the blueprints spread out in front of the two of them are the blueprints for his apartment building and the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium. He isn’t supposed to see them until the actual job is ready to go, but here they are in an ice cream parlor in downtown Tokyo, nowhere near ready to execute a job or approach a mark. Sometimes, Oikawa thinks, reality is even stranger than a dream. Akaashi doesn’t make any indication that he might move any time soon, so Oikawa leans forward instead, making himself visible to Bokuto and covering the blueprints with his body.    
  
"Hello," Oikawa says, his voice pitched bright and cheery in reflection to Bokuto's own in an attempt to draw his attention, his best but Bokuto continues looking at Akaashi, his face eager.    
  
"...hello," Akaashi replies after another breath, not bothering to hide the reluctance on his face. Bokuto, however, looks undisturbed by the lack of a positive reaction, positively beaming at the fact that he had gotten a reaction at all. It’s cute, Oikawa thinks, in its own way.

“Uh,” Bokuto says, still smiling, “my friend Yukie dared me to come over here and ask for your number! Because I think you’re cute. And I’d like to go on a date with you! Ah, only if you’re interested, though.” He glances, for the first time, at Oikawa’s smiling face, and his bright smile falters just a little. 

“Or, uh, am I interrupting something…?” he trails off, but Oikawa just leans forwards, his own smile widening aggressively. 

“Oh no,” Oikawa says, “we’re not together. In fact, Akaashi here would be happy to go out on a date with you. He was just saying how cute he thought you were,  _ right, Akaashi _ ?” Oikawa’s gaze cuts to Akaashi, who turns back to glare at Oikawa. Oikawa narrows his eyes, and Akaashi raises an eyebrow. Finally, Oikawa leans back smiling, and Akaashi slowly flips to the back of his notebook, ripping out a page and scribbling a couple of lines before folding the paper and holding it out to Bokuto. 

“Text me your address,” Akaashi says, his voice even and cool, “I’ll pick you up at 7. Wear something nice.” 

“Okay!” Bokuto replies, his smile like a sunbeam. He just about skips back to his friend—Shirofuku Yukie, Oikawa recognizes from the research. Akaashi sighs. 

“I hate you,” Akaashi says to Oikawa.

“I know,” Oikawa says, “but it eliminates the need to engineer a meeting.”

“I know,” Akaashi replies, and grits his teeth.

\--

There’s already someone in the room when Oikawa steps in from the hallway, and when he turns to look, wondering who it is, hands reaching for the hidden gun tucked hidden by his jacket, their eyes meet—and Oikawa’s face instantly darkens into a snarl. He doesn’t lower his hands from where they reach for his gun.

“Tobio-chan,” Oikawa coos, his voice too sweet to be anything but poisonous, “ _ what are you doing here _ ?” Kageyama stiffens, his fingers twitching from where they rest against the armrests of the seat, his fingers reaching, instinctively, towards his pocket, where Oikawa knows he carries a tiny volleyball keychain. 

“Oikawa-san,” Kageyama says, quiet and even, “I...was in the neighborhood. I wanted to see how Iwaizumi-san was doing.” 

“Unchanged,” Oikawa recites, stepping in and flinging the door open with so much force it slams against the wall before flying back, the sound sharp like a crack of lightning. It doesn’t matter, though, because no one on this floor will complain because they’re all asleep, far out of Oikawa or anyone else’s reach, “Patient appears, for all intents and purposes, to be asleep, and will not wake up. There’s your progress report, now scram, Tobio-chan.”

Kageyama’s eyebrows knit together, but he doesn’t say anything in reply—he takes the abuse, but he doesn’t accept it. 

“Oikawa-san,” Kageyama starts again, “I’m sorr—”

“ _ Get out _ ,” Oikawa snarls, his face twisting into something ugly, his fingers brushing against the holster, the butt of his gun, “before I make you.” 

Kageyama stands, stiff, glancing at Hajime’s still self one last time before he makes his way away from the bed, pausing as he passes Oikawa. 

“He could still wake up,” Kageyama says quietly, “when you die in a dream, you wake up. That’s the one thing that’s never changed, even all the way down.” 

“It’s been over a year on the surface,” Oikawa replies, his voice rising in comparison to Kageyma’s falling one, “which means it’s been decades, centuries, down there. I’m not stupid, Tobio. Dream or not, no one can live forever.”

What he doesn’t say is that he doesn’t think Hajime is down there anymore.

“Iwaizumi-san would, if it was to find you,” Kageyama replies, simply, and then excuses himself, the door gently closing behind him as Kageyama leaves. 

Oikawa looks up, at the window, at the sunset spilling colors over the room, over Iwaizumi and his hands. He makes his way quietly to the chair Kageyama had just vacated, sitting down gently and reaching out to take Hajime’s hand, thin and bony. It almost doesn’t feel like Hajime anymore, doesn’t feel like the hand he’s held all his life, the hand that has caressed his face and body, the hand that has held guns and grenades, books and flowers in them. Oikawa glances up—Hajime’s face is a sunken shell of what it once was, softened by disuse and decay. He’s wilting, Oikawa thinks, and grips at Hajime’s hands in both of his. He wishes, desperately, that they knew more about dreaming. He wishes that they knew what happened in the deeper levels, that they had more information about the bottom of the ocean, the place they called Limbo, a place created by the multiplication of dream upon dream upon dream. 

Oikawa had promised, once, that he and Hajime would always be together.

“You’re a liar, too, Hajime,” Oikawa whispers into their joined hands. 

In the sunset, Hajime is still, and Oikawa shakes.

\--

“Why do you love space so much?” Hajime asks, kicking his legs from where they dangle, slotted between the posts of the porch fence. They’re six, seven years old, hiding in the sun from the sweltering Miyagi heat. 

“Why does Iwa-chan love bugs so much?” Oikawa retorts, pulling his knees close to his chest and beginning to pick at the alien-covered bandage over his left knee—scraped, after chasing after Hajime chasing after a butterfly. 

“Because I can shove them down your dumb shirt!” Hajime growls, “and stop picking at your bandage!” Oikawa jumps to his feet, scowling, crosses his arms and lifts his chin. 

“Mean!” he cries, sticking out his tongue, “you’re the meanest, Iwa-chan!” That makes Hajime rise as well, and then they’re chasing each other around the yard, screaming in jest and irritation by turn. By the time Hajime catches up to Oikawa, tackling him into his mother’s hydrangeas, they're both laughing. 

“You can do anything in space, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, rolling over onto another patch of ruined hydrangeas, “you can be anything you want in space. That's why I like it so much.”

“But you don't need to go to space for that,” Hajime frowns, “you can be anything you want here on Earth, too! In—in your dreams! Your dreams can take you anywhere you want to go. Besides, if you go to space, how am I ever going to see you again?”

“You're coming with me to space, Iwa-chan! As if I would go without you. And dreams aren't real, silly Iwa-chan,” Oikawa laughs, “i can't bring my dream self into the real world. ”

“Yes, you can,” Hajime says, “even if you can't do it by yourself, I'll be there besides you. I'll do it with you.” Oikawa is silent, his lips part, surprise and joy. 

“Promise?” He finally asks, his voice a near-whisper. Hajime nods, holds out his hand, pinky outstretched. 

“Promise,” Hajime replies.

—

“Tell me,” Oikawa asks, leaning against the edge of an empty table in Kuroo’s makeshift lab, “how do you think the sedatives affect our dreaming?” 

Kuroo glances over briefly, his gaze seemingly uninterested as he holds up a test tube to the light between them. 

“You know what happens,” Kuroo replies, “the sedatives stabilize our sleep, which in turn, stabilizes each layer of the dream. That’s how we can pull off three levels.” 

“But is that all?” Oikawa presses, “haven’t you ever wondered if the sedatives react in some other way with the Somnacin that we just don’t know yet? How much do we actually know about this stuff?” 

Kuroo frowns, and places his test tube back into the holder, pulling off his rubber gloves with a snap.

“Oikawa,” he says, “is this about Iwaizumi?” Oikawa looks down at the concrete ground of their designated office space, thousands of spidering, splintering cracks running through the floor. 

“I remember every detail about that job,” Oikawa says, “everything. I can still remember the carpeting we chose for the third level and how many steps it took from one door to another and every single word that my team said down there. I can remember each gun Kunimi dreamed up and the angle the sun hit each building. But I can’t remember what sedatives we used, or how much we used. And it’s a process of elimination, right? Everything else was perfect, which means the sedatives were the part that weren’t. If we had used less—” 

“Oikawa,” Kuroo says again, stepping forward, “whether you remember them or not, the sedatives wouldn’t be able to do all that. Underdosing the sedatives would have jeopardized the stability of the dream and the job more than it would have reduced the risk of falling into limbo.  There’s no magical missing link here. That I do know.” 

Oikawa is silent, and then he smiles, pushing himself off the table and making his way slowly, deliberately, towards the door. 

“Maybe you’re right, Kuroo,” he says, his smile not quite right on the rest of his face, his wave too carefree to require anything but all of his strength, “maybe I’m overthinking it too much.”

—

They find them.

“ _ Tobio _ ,” Oikawa hisses, “you said we still had time.” Kageyama’s lips are parted, his eyes round in surprise. He doesn’t move, even as Kunimi moves past him, gun in hand. Kindaichi follows, shoulder bumping against Kageyama’s, and that, out of everything, startles Kageyama into swallowing. 

“We do,” he insists, “I don’t understand why—”

“It’s fine,” Hajime cuts through, coming through from the other room, pressing another gun into Kageyama’s hands before shooting Oikawa a look, eyes narrowed. Oikawa’s own eyes narrow in response. This is exactly what he was worried about, this is exactly what he was afraid would happen, if they let Kageyama down here on his very first job. He should have stayed on top, with the rest of them. They should have taken Yahaba with them to build the levels. But Hajime had insisted, and even when they were still fighting, Oikawa couldn’t say no to him. 

“It’s not like we haven’t dealt with rogue projections before,” Hajime says, running a hand through his hair, “we literally have a contingency plan for this.” His other hand is clutching what Oikawa recognizes as the plans to the level, which Hajime spreads out between the three of them. The level is circular, of course, and they’re standing in the middle of it all—which should have been fine, it should have given them plenty of time before the projections found them. It’s perfect, almost genius, the way Kageyama has built them this level. Oikawa leans forward, though, frowning at the map as Hajime discusses alternate routes and tactical plans. He growls, suddenly, and stabs at a point in the map.

“You left it open,” Oikawa hisses, “that’s how they got through.” Hajime falls silent, as the clock ticks down, precious seconds lost as they all process Oikawa’s words. 

“Impossible,” Kageyama says, but then he pushes away Oikawa’s fingers, turns the map towards himself. His expression drops, paling from indignity to horror. 

“I left it open,” Kageyama repeats, and he closes his eyes. Oikawa can hear the words snarling up in his throat, can feel his body tensing in anticipation of a fight. He opens his mouth, venom coating his throat—and then Hajime is putting a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back into silence and stillness. 

“Okay,” Hajime says, his voice stern but calm, “let’s use this to our advantage.”

\--

“The job,” Akaashi Keiji says, “is inception.” Oikawa laughs. 

“Can’t be done,” he replies, sipping the dregs of his caramel macchiato loudly, partially because he can, and partially because the sound seems to annoy Akaashi immensely. 

“Yes, it can,” Akaashi replies, simply and without commenting or even looking at the empty cup in Oikawa’s hands, and he pushes a file towards Oikawa, who lets it sit for a moment before reaching for it, flipping through the pages. Dominick Cobb, the Fischer job. The subsequent and complete dissolution of Fischer Morrow.

“Alright,” Oikawa agrees, closing the file, “it can be done. What makes you think you can do it?” Akaashi pushes another folder towards Oikawa, who doesn’t hesitate this time before taking the folder. 

“His name is Bokuto Koutarou,” Akaashi says, taking a much smaller and much quieter sip of his green tea, “he plays professional volleyball. He’s a—”

“Wing spiker, and he’ll probably play for Japan in the next Olympics,” Oikawa finishes, flipping through the pages of the file without really reading them. 

“Matsukawa did say that you liked volleyball,” Akaashi nods. 

“I was going to go pro,” Oikawa replies, setting this file down as well. 

“What stopped you?” Akaashi asks. 

“Blew out my knee,” Oikawa shrugs, “discovered dreaming.” Akaashi nods again, turns the teacup around, his long fingers elegant against the curves of the cup. 

“Our employer would like to remain unnamed,” Akaashi continues, “but I have already thoroughly vetted him. He would like us to ensure that in the next practice game against China, Bokuto Koutarou does not lead his team to victory.” 

“That seems like a small job, for the price I’m sure you’re charging for inception,” Oikawa says, leaning back in his chair. Akaashi shrugs, a smooth wave of his shoulders. 

“I suspect that he has a number of other connected odds and bets related to this,” Akaashi replies, “but that isn’t any of our concern.” Oikawa laughs. 

“Alright then. Who else have you gotten on the job?” Oikawa asks. 

“Kuroo Tetsurou will be our Chemist,” Akaashi says, “and Kozume Kenma will be our Architect.”

“I’ve worked with both of them,” Oikawa nods, “they’re good. Is that it?” 

“Unless you think otherwise,” Akaashi says, “you’ll be our Extractor, after all.” 

“And you’ll run point?” Oikawa asks.

“As I’m sure you’ll discover in your own research, Oikawa-san,” Akaashi replies, standing up, “I prefer to stay in the background. Are you in?” 

Oikawa smiles, and doesn’t think of a dream crumbling around him.

“Sure,” he says, “I’m in.” 

—

What he and Hajime have is built up over years. It’s a perfect trust, a wordless understanding that has only been formed through years of partnership and experience, joy and hardship, friendship and love. It’s how Oikawa can drive Hajime up a veritable wall, but still know that when he turns his back during a shootout, Hajime will be there to cover him, as solid as a knight defending his king and castle. 

It’s the same, now. Hajime’s plan essentially involves exploiting the same hole that allowed all the projections to find them in the first place—it’ll put them in the middle of the dream maze, close to an empty pocket of space where they can at least regroup. They’ve still got to figure out exactly how they’re going to complete the job, but really, there are more pressing concerns. 

Kindaichi and Kunimi promise to buy them as much time as they can, and distract the projections long enough for Kageyama, Hajime, and Oikawa to make their way through the horde and cut through the maze. 

“Oi,” Hajime says, catching Oikawa’s attention, “if we botch this job, you owe all of us ramen.” 

Oikawa flashes Hajime a grin and a peace sign. 

“Don’t worry, Hajime,” he says, his voice steady, “everything is going to be okay.”

—

Akaashi freezes. 

“Oikawa,” he hisses, and Oikawa’s head whirls around to see Bokuto coming towards them, followed by—followed by Hajime. 

“Oh shit,” Oikawa breathes. 

“You said you had it under control!” Akaashi hisses. 

“I didn't think you actually believed me!” Oikawa hisses back. Akaashi shoots him a look of exasperation. 

“ _ Oikawa, if I didn’t believe you we would not be here right now, _ ” Akaashi starts, but then he closes his mouth, face going neutral, as Bokuto stops in front of them, his face twisted in confusion. Bokuto does not hide his emotions well. They had been counting on that, for this job. Confusion is written across his face, and hurt is peppered on top of it in patches. 

“Hello, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi greets, cautious.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, “you don’t play volleyball.” 

One of Akaashi’s many skills, as Oikawa had found in his initial research, is that he is an exceptionally good liar. So when he looks at Bokuto, his own face confused, and slightly suspicious of Hajime besides Bokuto, Oikawa almost believes him himself. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, slow, “what are you talking about? Of course I play volleyball. We’ve been on the same team for a year now. I tossed to you for a whole two hours after practice yesterday.” The conviction of the words give Bokuto pause—his face wavers, again, rippling and rife with confusion. Besides Bokuto, Hajime shifts his weight from one foot to another, and Oikawa can’t help but let his eyes wander away from Bokuto to Hajime. 

But it’s not Hajime, though, not really. The real Hajime had never smiled at Oikawa like that, so calculated and almost cruel. Hajime had always been linear, cause and effect and no variables that Oikawa hadn’t already learned to compensate for. No, this is merely the shade of Hajime, the shade of a man he loves. Akaashi and Bokuto are still talking, but Oikawa tunes them out. He watches Hajime and his soft, sharp smile widen before Hajime puts a finger to his lips and quietly backs away, one, two, three steps before he turns, footsteps soft and then fading into nothing. Oikawa watches him go.

“Iwaizumi said—” Bokuto starts, but stops, when he turns to see no one besides him. He looks at Oikawa, who shrugs, schooling his face into something genial and baffled.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, stepping forward and grasping on to the hem of Bokuto’s jersey, “come on. We should be getting ready for the match. Are you all stretched out?” 

“Yeah,” Bokuto says, distracted. He gives one last glance around him, before turning to Akaashi and letting him lead the way, “must have eaten something bad last night before bed.” He trails off, face smoothing into hard-thinking pensiveness, and Akaashi turns briefly to look at Oikawa.

“You too, Oikawa-san,” Akaashi says, “remember, we have a job to do.”

“Of course,” Oikawa replies, flashing another smile—but it drops as soon as Akaashi turns back around, escorting their mark away. 

The world rumbles, a soft shudder rolling off a cat’s back, and Oikawa looks up. The dream is falling apart.

\--

He's seeing things. 

Kenma is walking them through the stadium, secret stashes and shortcuts, paths they need to learn better than their own childhood homes if they're going to successfully pull this job off, and Oikawa keeps catching things out of the corner of his eye. The curve of an arm, the sound of a barking laugh, a particular shade of green. It’s maddening—it’s there, and then gone, and Oikawa doesn’t know yet if he should say anything. 

“Oikawa,” Kenma says, his quiet voice startling through Oikawa’s tension. 

“Sorry,” Oikawa flashes a smile, bright and cotton candy nothingness, “I was just admiring your work, Kenma-kun! It’s a very nice level, very realistic.” 

“Thank you,” Kenma says, blinks slowly as he considers Oikawa, “but you look distracted.” 

“Don’t worry,” Oikawa waves his hand in front of his face, letting his hand wave lazy and careless, “it’s just been a while since I’ve been in a dream like—” His words trail off as the sound of footsteps grow louder, as the sun seems to shine brighter, falling across the doorway to illuminate—to illuminate Hajime, Hajime as Oikawa last remembers him. 

There’s blood on his cheeks and on the cuffs of his sleeves, and splattered across the backs of his hand, his fingers still curved around a gun.

“Hajime,” Oikawa breathes, and he can’t help but step forward. 

“What the fuck?” he hears Kuroo say from behind him, but Oikawa doesn’t bother to answer, instinctively drawn towards Hajime, Hajime, whose face is still animated, whose movements are as strong and firm as he remembers, who, in this moment, is more alive than ever. 

Hajime, who nods once when he looks at Oikawa.

“Tooru,” he greets, quiet.

And then he raises the gun in his hand, and as Oikawa inhales, Hajime shoots, one, two, three. Oikawa winces, and then turns as he hears the sounds of bodies dropping—Akaashi, Kenma, and Kuroo, all three of them are dead, knocked out of the dream, and the dream itself, Kenma’s dream, begins to crumble too, as Hajime steps forwards. 

“I miss you,” Hajime says, and then he raises the gun to Oikawa’s forehead and pulls the trigger, one smooth motion without any pause or hesitation, the sound and sensation of the blow sharp enough to white out all of Oikawa’s thoughts for one brief, endless second—

And then he gasps into the real world, hand reaching instinctively to tear the IV needle out of his arm. The rest of them don’t look much better. Kenma’s face is pale, his hair falling in front of his face and hiding it. Akaashi presses his fingers into his temples, as if that will keep the memories from taking hold in his brain. Kuroo is standing, his hands clenching and unclenching as if to reassure himself that he still can. 

“What the fuck was that?” Kuroo yells at Oikawa, storming across the room to grab at the collar of his shirt. 

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” Oikawa replies, limp in Kuroo’s grasp, “Iwa-chan. Hajime.”

“A shade,” Kenma cuts in, “a rogue projection.” 

“Oikawa,” Akaashi says, “if you can’t do this, you need to tell us right now.” 

“It’s fine,” Oikawa says, after a beat, his hands coming up to tug at Kuroo’s grasp on his collar—Kuroo lets go, easily enough, and Oikawa stumbles back, finding suddenly that he can’t seem to hold himself up. His knees bend, collapsing back onto the settee he had claimed for their walkthrough, “it’ll be fine. It’s been a while since I shared a dream with anyone. I’ve got it under control. Don’t worry about it.” He smiles, feeling the edges of it wobble, but Oikawa  _ holds it in place _ , with everything he has in him. 

“I’m sorry,” Oikawa says, “it won’t happen again.” 

Akaashi gives Oikawa a long, hard look, before his gaze turns to Kenma—who nods, imperceptibly, his hair still hiding his face—and Kuroo—who sighs, and runs a hand through his hair.

“Alright,” Akaashi says, “see that it doesn’t. Let’s do this again.”

\--

The world rumbles. 

Three layers down, the world is bound to be a little more shaky, a little more blurred at the edges. At three layers, the boundaries of reality start to push back—but that’s what they have the sedatives for. 

Three layers down, there is no room for hesitation, and Oikawa doesn’t let his mind do anything but aim and shoot, Hajime at his back, Kageyama darting around them, pushing them forwards. How much further do they have? How far have they managed to go? Oikawa doesn’t know. 

The world rumbles, a rolling wave whose only effect is visible in the way the ground wobbles, the way the projections rise and fall with it. They don’t hesitate, but Oikawa does, fumbling his steps, his foot falling as the ground sinks, and he loses his balance for a moment—before Hajime is turning, reaching out and grabbing Oikawa by the waist, pulling him close as his gun aims forwards, two rapid bangs ringing in his ears.

“Careful,” Hajime says, pulling back, attention already returning to the task at hand.

“Thanks,” Oikawa manages, righting himself, turning again so their backs are pressed together once more. 

“Oikawa-san! Iwaizumi-san! Over here!” Kageyama calls, and they turn, together. Even now, there are projections spilling through the inadvertent hole he’d left in the level, and although Kageyama keeps shooting as many of them as he can, even more of them spill through.

“Come on,” Hajime grunts, and Oikawa nods, and their footsteps gain speed, until they are running towards the entrance. Kageyama is still shooting, relentless, but the flow doesn’t stop. It’s like a back and forth, each of Kageyama’s bullets hitting its target, never faltering, but for each projection that falls, another charges through the open doorway. 

When Oikawa had first started dreaming, he’d had to learn the hard way about projections. He’d tried to make friends with them, placate them and calm them down—why use force when a bit of charm would do just as well, Hajime?—but they’d just swarmed him, ripped him to shreds, unwilling or unable to reason. Oikawa has died a million and one ways in dreams—shot, beaten, strangled, drown, stabbed, burned—and he’s long given up remembering the entire list. It never leaves, the feeling of dying, the feeling of pain that he’s never really experienced. Oikawa wonders, sometimes, how his mind knows how the pain feels. How can one’s brain know exactly how the sensation of searing skin feels, or the slow agony that bleeding out brings? Oikawa’s always wondered—but he’s not sure if he wants to know the answer, truly. 

What he has learned, though, is that there is no reasoning with projections. There is no trick to render them all inert, nothing that requires a touch of finesse. The mazes, even in all their elegance, are designed to create the longest path and the strongest obstacles, giving them the most time. In dreams, you lie low, but if you cannot, shoot without hesitation. 

It takes Oikawa years to come to terms with this, but for people like Hajime and Kageyama, unwavering in their action and resolve, it comes easy. Oikawa has never seen Hajime falter.

Kageyama, though—it just takes a second, a second for him to hesitate before he turns, and then a wave of projections comes, rising in an entirely different kind of wave, and Kageyama’s eyes widen, his breath catches, audible even from here—

And then Hajime is breaking away from Oikawa, rushing forward, gun in hand and pulling out another, unwavering in his resolve or action. 

Three layers down, the world rumbles again. Hajime steps forward, as the ground rolls once more, and Oikawa hears, more than he sees, him crumple. Like animals, the projections turn to Hajime’s misstep, sensing weakness. Oikawa hears himself screaming, increasingly frantic, and Kageyama yells, but Oikawa can’t make out the words. 

Hajime falls, and is swallowed up.

The world stills.

\--

Is Limbo real? 

Oikawa’s always wondered that. Of course to an extent, it’s  _ real _ —he’s been down here before, he still remembers what it felt like to know that he’d hit the bottom of everything, that down here, there was nothing but the sky and infinity. 

It’s real, but it’s a fantasy, too. It’s perfect in the way that only something imagined can be perfect. 

That is both its beauty and its fallacy. 

The last thing Oikawa remembers hearing is the sound of a gunshot, echoing through the emptiness of a locker room. The last thing he remembers seeing is Hajime’s eyes, dark green going darker, level and unchanging. 

Oikawa opens his eyes now, before squeezing them shut again suddenly—the sky, the sky is bright and blue and almost blinding. He doesn’t remember color being this vivid. He doesn’t remember what blue looks like, except it looks like that, in front of him. Slowly, Oikawa opens his eyes again, letting them adjust to the brightness of the sky.

There’s sand underneath his fingers, the sound of waves as they rush up to meet him, all of him damp and cold and heightened. It all feels very, very real, realer than anything he’s felt the last few months, the last  _ year _ .

But, this is a dream. 

Oikawa takes a deep breath, and then exhales, sitting up. He takes a moment, blinking, to look out over the infinite ocean, and then pushes himself up to standing. 

There is nothing, and then all at once, there is everything. He doesn’t know how he gets there, doesn’t know when the sand becomes concrete, and Oikawa finds himself descending down stairs into a nameless Tokyo train station, the gates automatically opening for him without payment, the entire station empty. He makes his way to the platform, drawn to it. Oikawa Tooru is waiting for a train, and waiting for—

“Oi.” 

He turns, and standing there next to him, the only other soul in this entire world, is Hajime, his Hajime. Oikawa smiles.

“Hajime. Are you real?” he asks. Oikawa’s shot so many variations of Iwaizumi Hajimes in his dreams now that he doesn’t know if he could pick out the real one anymore. He wants to think that his memories ring true—that he still knows Hajime in his mind, could build him up from nothingness. But Oikawa knows, now, that he can’t, that for how long and how intimately he’s known Hajime, everything he can reproduce is just merely a shade of him. His memories, the very memories he cherishes so deeply—they are his downfall.

“Are you?” Hajime shoots back. His face morphs into a scowl, a familiar expression that Oikawa takes a moment to examine. Hajime’s teeth are crooked, his eyebrows uneven. When Oikawa thinks of Hajime, he always thinks of the summer after high school, when they and Mattsun and Makki had gone down to the beach, and Hajime had tanned and freckled. The freckles had long faded in real life, but whenever Oikawa thinks of Hajime, he thinks of him that summer. 

Hajime has no freckles now. 

“I came after you,” Oikawa says, quiet, “I told myself I wasn’t going to leave until I had found you. You promised me you would be besides me.” 

“You promised me we would be together,” Hajime shoots back, a sharp edge before falling silent, “you left without finding me. I waited. I’m still waiting.” 

“I’m sorry,” Oikawa replies, “how long has it been down here, Hajime?” Hajime shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets, the movements tugging at the shoulders of his shirt.

“Who knows?” Hajime muses, a wry twist to his lips, “all I know is, I’m waiting for something. Someone.” 

“Are you waiting for me?” Oikawa presses, “why haven’t you died and woken up?” Hajime laughs, a little, and it’s a little too loud, too much of a bark, and Oikawa feels something lighten in him, hearing its asymmetry. 

“It hadn’t occurred to me that I could,” Hajime replies, tilting his head a little, “I think I’d forgotten, until just now.”

“So you stayed,” Oikawa finishes. 

“I stayed,” Hajime replies. He shifts, glancing at something behind Oikawa, “but the train is coming now. Should we get on it?” He holds out his hand, unfurls it like an offering, like a flower towards the sun. Oikawa reaches out, and takes it. It’s warm, and gentle, just like Hajime, covered in callouses and nicks, a thousand tiny scars and a thousand tiny stories.

“Do you trust me?” Oikawa asks instead. Hajime nods immediately, and Oikawa thinks he might cry. He squeezes Hajime’s hand, steps forward into his embrace. 

“Yes,” Hajime replies, verbalizing it. Oikawa smiles, and pulls Hajime close, to the edge of the platform. He can hear the train now, the whoosh as it picks up air, the growing feeling of anticipation between them.

“Then we’ll be together,” he murmurs, and as the train bursts into view, Oikawa tips forward, keeping his grip on Hajime tight, focusing on the feeling of his hand in his. 

Oikawa wakes up.

\--

“Staring at the door isn’t going to make him come home any faster,” Kenma says, his voice dry and disinterested. Oikawa and Kuroo make noises of disagreement from the couches they’re lying on, pulled out of formation for the perfect vantage point of the hotel room door. 

“Y’know,” Kuroo muses, tapping against the pleather of his chosen perch, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Akaashi ever go on a real date.” 

“Me neither,” Oikawa nods, pursing his lips and setting his head in his hands.

“That’s because he recognizes you’re a meddling old grandmother, Kuroo,” Kenma says, not impatiently, “and we literally just started working with you, Oikawa.” 

“I’m not a meddling old grandmother!” Kuroo protests, and Oikawa grins.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “more like a meddling middle-aged auntie.” He laughs, even as Kuroo scowls and begins to mock yell, even as Kenma takes a glance at his PSP and clearly considers spending his night elsewhere. But before any of these things get very far, the door swings open, and Akaashi walks through the door, cheeks flushed red, scarf ajar, his usual calm demeanor ruffled. 

“Akaashi, welcome back,” Kuroo directs his attention away from Oikawa swiftly, “how was your date?” 

“I paid for dinner because he forgot his wallet,” Akaashi says, “and then he took me to three different parks.” 

“Why?” Oikawa asks, wrinkling his nose a little.

“I couldn’t figure it out,” Akaashi replies, unfazed, “Bokuto-san is a little eccentric, so it seems.” 

“I think he's a romantic,” Oikawa muses, tapping at his cheek, “he was probably looking for the perfect bench to kiss you on or something like that.” Almost imperceptibly, Akaashi’s cheeks redden, and his eyes shift away. Oikawa rises slowly, grinning as he catches the movement. 

“Did he kiss you?” Kuroo asks, voice eager. 

“On the  _ first date _ ?” Oikawa adds, his own voice curling with something akin to delight.

“If you’re going to be children about this, I’m going to send you to bed,” Kenma interjects, irritation lacing his voice. 

“But  _ Mom _ ,” Kuroo drawls, and Kenma turns to look at him. Oikawa can’t see the expression on Kenma’s face, but whatever it is, it must be frightening for Kuroo, whose sly smile slides into something frozen, before he turns away, laughing nervously. Kenma ducks his head down, going back to his game, but his voice is laced with interest as he speaks.

“Did you have a good time, though?” he asks. Akaashi takes a deep breath, his fingers twisting together, nails already starting to scrape against cuticles. 

“Yes,” Akaashi exhales, looking down and giving a small smile, “I had a good time. If it wasn’t for this job—” He pauses, frowns, and his fingers still again, everything silent. 

“We could bail,” Oikawa offers, “if you wanted us to.” 

“No,” Akaashi sighs, “it was just a first date. A good first date, but still—a first date. And besides.” He digs into the pocket of his wool coat, pulling out a cell phone and tossing it onto the table, “I went to too much trouble to clone his cell phone for us to not make use of it now.” 

“Akaashi,” Oikawa laughs, “there’s not a single romantic bone in your body.”

\--

Akaashi’s hands rest on the door of Bokuto’s locker, one hand laid flat against the metal, the other crumpling a sheet of match results in the other. Oikawa stands at the end of the row, still in a bright blue jersey, a gun held loosely in his hands as he glances back and forth between Akaashi and the door.

“Hurry up,” Oikawa hisses, “we don’t have that much longer.” But Akaashi doesn’t react, just continues to stand with his hands splayed out against the door. 

“I—I can’t do it,” Akaashi whispers, sounding shocked.

“What?” Oikawa says, still glancing from the door to Akaashi and back, “you can’t get in? Didn’t you just get the key from—”

“Yes,” Akaashi says, his voice laced with frustration, “I have the key, and I have the note. But I  _ can’t do it _ .” Something about the way he says it gives Oikawa pause, and when he turns back this time, his gaze stays on Akaashi, on the way his face twists with something familiar, yet different at the same time. It hangs in the air, a second hand ticking slowly, fighting against gravity—before it falls into the next second, all at once.

“Well,” Oikawa sighs finally, “I guess I was wrong.” 

“What?” Akaashi looks up, startled.

“You are a romantic after all,” Oikawa says, and, giving one final glance at the door, turns to Akaashi, lowering his gun and stepping into the row, “you’ve been on what, five dates with Bokuto?” 

“ _ Six _ ,” Akaashi hisses, but there’s no bite in his voice. 

“Alright,” Oikawa agrees, “six dates. Look, we’ve got half an hour left on this level. If you’re not going to go through inception, we should use this time to come up with a story as to why—”

“Oikawa,” Akaashi cuts through, fond exasperation lacing his voice—although, Oikawa notes, not as fond as his voice would have been had it been Bokuto in front of him, and not Oikawa. 

“No, seriously, Akaashi,” Oikawa says, “we need a story, and you should probably tell Bokuto the truth, if you’re going to pursue a relationship with him.” 

“ _ Oikawa _ ,” Akaashi tries again, but his shoulders are untensing, his grip loosening around the unplanted idea in his hand. 

“The last thing you want is any unfinished loose ends,” Oikawa continues, letting himself get into the flow of his words.

“Oikawa!” Akaashi yells, his eyes widening, hands dropping the paper in his hands, which reach for a gun that hasn’t quite formed yet.

Oikawa turns, just in time to see Hajime, a gun pointed, aimed, fired straight into his chest. He gasps, a choked, soundless sound, and there’s fire in his heart. It builds, drowning out everything, a wave enveloping everything, and the ground is shaking, the ground falls out from underneath him as he falls, the same way it shook on the day he lost Hajime.

Hajime looks at him now, his eyes unchanging, unfeeling, his entire expression so un-Hajime,  and Oikawa finally, finally, can step back. This thing, whatever it is, whatever dark corner of his dream mind it comes from—it’s not Hajime, not his Hajime. And Oikawa’s always known that, always, but he’s never quite believed it. He’s always believed he carries a little piece of Hajime with him, and Hajime, in return, has taken a piece of him away. After all, then, it would make sense for this Hajime to be here, to blame Oikawa.

But the truth is, Hajime wouldn’t—won’t—blame Oikawa for anything that’s happened. He never has. And Oikawa had forgotten that, even as he blames himself two times harder, even as he works himself to the bone and is drawn away, towards, and away again from dreaming.  _ It’s going to be alright _ , Oikawa thinks, or says, or both,  _ Iwa-chan _ .

He draws in a breath, tries to pull in air, but his hands are red and his vision goes blurry, and—

Oikawa falls.

\--

The only thing keeping Oikawa together is sheer willpower and adrenaline. For a few minutes, he can only act, his brain whiting out and running on pure instinct. One moment, he is standing in the doorway, pushing himself into a hoard of projections, a machine gun suddenly in his hands, and the next, Kageyama is slamming him into the wall of a silent room, his hands bloody, breath panting heavily. Oikawa’s hands reflexively open, and he hears the clatter of a gun he didn’t know he was holding. 

They’re in the regroup spot that Hajime had pointed out on the map, that they had been trying to get to. It’s quiet here, silent, except for the sound of Oikawa’s own hysterical breathing and Kageyama’s shaky exhales. Oikawa can’t even bring himself to be disturbed the absolute lack of ambient noise around them—a usual sign that something in the dream is wrong and strange. 

“I have to go after him,” Oikawa says, “I need to get Hajime back.” 

“What?” Kageyama’s eyebrows scrunch together, as if he cannot understand what Oikawa is saying. 

“Into the next level,” Oikawa says, “that’s where Hajime is, I just need to get to him and wake him up.” 

“Oikawa-san,” Kageyama says, slow, “there is no next level. No one’s managed to perfect the stabilization for a fourth level. The only thing down there is—”

“ _ I know _ ,” Oikawa shrieks, “and I’m going down there!” 

“You can’t compromise the job, Oikawa-san,” Kageyama says. Oikawa pushes Kageyama’s hands away, runs his own blood hands across his face, into his hair, throwing it askew. He crosse the room in three running steps, reaching for for a PASIV machine willed into existence by sheer desperation. 

“I know,” Oikawa says, and he does know. There’s Kunimi and Kindaichi, relying and trusting him down here. There’s Kyoutani and Yahaba, on the level above them, and Matsukawa and Hanamaki, on the level above that. They are as much his family as Hajime is, and he can’t let them down.

But he can’t just abandon Hajime, either.

“Five minutes,” Oikawa says, throwing open the PASIV and pulling out lines, “give me five minutes on this level down there. Finish the job—you know what to do, Tobio.” 

“I can’t pull you out of Limbo from here,” Kageyama says, “you’ll have to wake yourself up, down there.” The implication— _ will you do it? _ —remains unsaid.

“Five minutes,” Oikawa repeats, firm, “that’s all I need.” 

Kageyama freezes, a myriad of emotions—fear, discontent, frustration, uncertainty—run across his face. And then he stands. 

“Five minutes,” he repeats.

“That’s all I’ll need,” Oikawa replies, and then he’s pulling off his jacket, rolling up his sleeve as Kageyama makes his way towards the door, a gun comfortably held in his arms as he exits, and Oikawa pricks at his veins with shaking hands, once, twice before he gets it in, and he lays back, closes his eyes, and thinks,  _ Hajime _ .

Oikawa opens his eyes on a beach he doesn’t remember ever imagining. There’s an echo to the waves as they wash onto the shore, a grittiness to the sand that’s slipped into his socks. In another time, another place, Oikawa might have let it get the best of him. Right now, though, he doesn’t have time. 

Scrambling to his feet, Oikawa turns, whirls around and away from the sea, turning to face an infinite beach, the sand extending as far as his eye can see—a vast desert, rather than an ocean. 

“Hajime,” Oikawa yells, but his voice is swallowed up by the waves and the sand, water and earth greedily eating up the sound. 

“ _ Hajime _ ,” he yells again, louder, his feet picking up speed as his voice picks up volume. There is nothing down here, nothing but sand and water and more sand, endless miles of endless space, and is this what Limbo is? Nothing but an infinite island, a land with three sides and one entrance, a mouse trap? But Hajime has to be down here. He has to be, and Oikawa finds himself running calculations in his head, dosages and fractions and everything in between. His calves burn in a way they haven’t in years, not since he was torn away from volleyball, and his knee aches with a pain that is normally invisible in this world. How long has he been running? His voice is raw, scratched smooth by sandpaper, but overexposed. 

There isn’t enough time, Oikawa thinks, how long has he been down here? 

Too long. Not long enough. He needs to find Hajime, damn the kick, damn the job, damn everything. They’d all understand, after Kageyama explained. Yahaba would make a good leader, would keep them all together, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa would be there to—

“ _ Oikawa-san _ !” 

Oikawa turns around, and there is Kageyama, panting as he comes after Oikawa, looking as worried as he had on the third level.

“What are you doing down here, Tobio-chan?” Oikawa hisses.

“You can’t stay down here,” Kageyama says, “we’re out of time. Job’s complete, Kunimi and Kindaichi are finishing up the kick on the third level. If you don’t leave here now, you’re not going to be able to leave.” 

“Hajime is still down here!” Oikawa yells, “I need to find him! I’m not leaving him down here.” 

“We’re out of time!” Kageyama yells back, and he’s aiming a gun at Oikawa’s head, and for the first time, Oikawa notices that his hands are shaking. This is his first job, Oikawa remembers, suddenly. His first job, and everything’s all gone to shit. Oikawa laughs, and it’s hysterical, manic. He can’t stop it, because despite everything, he knows Kageyama is telling the truth. 

“I’m sorry,” Kageyama says, and he pulls the trigger.

\--

“Oikawa,” Hanamaki says, pulling off the blankets, “this has to stop.” 

Oikawa remains motionless, curled up in the same position that he had been under the covers, knees drawn up loosely, hands curled in against his chest, as if he could protect his heart that way. The loss of his blanket brings in a rush of cold air, chilling him, but Oikawa’s been cold and empty for a long time, now.

“Makki,” he whines, curling in on himself, burying his face into his curled hands. 

“Oikawa,” Hanamaki repeats, “it’s been months. You can’t keep going on like this. If Iwaizumi saw you like this, he’d kick your ass all the way down the stairs and out the door.” And it’s true. Hajime has never had patience for Oikawa’s antics, no matter how often they’ve emerged. 

“He’s not, though,” Oikawa says, “he’s not here.” He turns, rotates so for a brief second his face is pressed into the mattress, and then he’s facing the wall, a dumb white wall that Hajime had wanted to paint a bright, sunshine yellow, but Oikawa had protested against. He wishes, now, that he had let Hajime win for once, and that he could have had that part of him still, at least.

“Oikawa,” and it’s Matsukawa now trying to coax him, “come on, we bought you milk bread.” Oikawa makes an acknowledging noises, but he doesn’t move. He knows he should sit up. He should eat the milk bread and let Matsukawa and Hanamaki distract him, let them take him to the rest of their crew—the crew that Hajime had brought together, the crew that Hajime had built for him because Oikawa had a dream, and Hajime had loved Oikawa enough to make it come true—but all Oikawa can think is that Hajime isn’t here, and he doesn’t deserve any of them because of it. 

“Come on,” Matsukawa continues, and he holds out his hand, “you need to eat something.” Slowly, Oikawa takes the hand, letting Matsukawa pull him into sitting, letting him smile with something hidden and soft, protective and proud. Hanamaki pulls over a desk chair, bringing over the promised milk bread and tearing it into pieces, feeding Oikawa quietly. 

“We’re not saying you need to forget Iwaizumi, or give up on him,” Hanamaki says, “but you shouldn’t stop your life altogether, either. It’s been a year, Oikawa. Have you been living at all?” 

“But what am I supposed to do without him?” Oikawa whispers, his voice small, breaking. Hanamaki pauses, but Matsukawa makes a noise, suddenly, and then begins digging through his pockets, pulling out a notebook and flipping to the back, scribbling something down before tearing it out and handing it to Oikawa.

“Why not a job?” he says, “I know a guy looking for an Extractor.” Oikawa looks down at the name and phone number written on the paper. Akaashi Keiji. And he should feel more trepidation, perhaps—he’s not exactly in a good place to begin with—but mostly, Oikawa feels intrigued. 

“Do you know what the job is?” he finds himself asking, still looking at the number. Matsukawa shrugs, and Oikawa rolls his eyes, accepting another piece of milk bread from Hanamaki. 

“You know,” he says, quietly, “I haven’t been an Extractor in a long time. That was always….that was always Hajime’s job.” 

“I think I can safely say that Iwaizumi wouldn’t begrudge you that,” Matsukawa says, “will you think about it, at least?” 

“Yeah,” Oikawa says, after a pause, and he folds the paper, sticks it in his pocket, and attempts a wobbly smile, “I’ll think about it.” 

\--

Oikawa wakes up, and his phone is ringing. 

Across the room, he sees Akaashi, carefully maneuvering Bokuto’s head into his lap as he quietly talks to Kuroo. Kenma makes his way around them, carefully rolling up the PASIV, carefully putting everything back into place. He looks up at Oikawa, pulling the needle out of his arm, and nods, briefly. The noise of his cell phone has drawn Akaashi and Kuroo’s attention, and for a moment, there’s silence between all of them. 

“You okay?” Kuroo asks, finally. Oikawa reaches into his pocket, pulling out his buzzing phone. 

_ Hanamaki Takahiro _ , it reads, and Oikawa knows. He smiles, perhaps the first real smile he’s had in a very long time.

“Yeah,” he says, and stands, “I’m okay. I have to go.” The phone falls still, and Oikawa glances down at it again, before it lights up once more.  _ Matsukawa Issei _ . Akaashi nods, calm, and his hands stroke through Bokuto’s hair.

“I’m going to explain everything to him,” Akaashi says, quiet, “and then we’ll decide what to do.” 

“I’ll be back to help,” Oikawa says, “this is mostly my fault, anyways.” Akaashi shrugs, agreeing but too polite to say so out loud, and Oikawa smiles, again. His phone rings—Matsukawa again—and this time, Oikawa picks up, even as he begins to walk away, steps picking up briskly into a jog, a run, a sprint.

“Mattsun,” he says, the breath beginning to come short, “is he awake?” 

“Oikawa,” Matsukawa replies, and Oikawa can hear the sound of Hanamaki in the background, and a familiar laugh that makes Oikawa’s heart ache to hear, “what the fuck did you do now?” 

“It’s a long story,” Oikawa laughs, “but I’m on my way.” 

He runs nearly the whole way to the hospital, forgoing the comfort of the train for the exhilaration of physicality, for the feeling of his heart pumping and his knee aching, reminding himself that this is the real world, that there is a little Godzilla in his pocket that will reassure him of that when the time is right.

He runs, flying past streets and buildings until he’s fidgeting as the elevator makes its way up to the fifteenth floor, rushing down hallways faster than he’s ever gone after a chance ball. And Oikawa knows exactly how he got here, every bitter step and pounding fall.

“Tooru,” Hajime says, looking up when Oikawa enters the room, breathing hard, a fine sheen of sweat over his entire body. He can’t even bring himself to care that he looks so dishevelled—he’s just come from a botched job, still half high on adrenaline and Somnacin, but he’s here, he’s here, and everyone is alive, and Hajime is awake, and with him, and really, at his core, that’s all that Oikawa has ever wanted. Matsukawa stands, then, clapping Hajime on the shoulder before coming over and clapping Tooru on the shoulder as well. Hanamaki follows, with a subdued smile, and as the door closes, it’s just Oikawa and Hajime again. They’re silent, for a moment—Oikawa looks up, over, at Hajime, drinks him in. His cheeks are still sunken, his body slight from months of disuse. But there’s life in his face again, light in his eyes, and his hands move in familiar ways, so easy that Oikawa aches for it. 

“Hajime,” Oikawa says, and then he throws himself forwards, until his hands are wrapped around Hajime’s waist—Hajime’s real waist, his real body—and Hajime’s hands are in his hair, stroking him gently. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m so sorry. I love you, I love you so much.” 

“Shh,” Hajime comforts, and why is Hajime comforting him? Hajime, who’s been lost at sea, adrift because Oikawa had cut his rope. Hajime, who’s suffered enough already. Oikawa tries to pull away, suddenly overwhelmed with that truth, but he finds that Hajime is holding fast—still, after all this time, he knows him better than Oikawa knows himself. 

“Stop blaming yourself,” Hajime says, “I’m here. You found me. I love you, Tooru, I love you so much too. Did you think I would stop?” 

“It would be easy for you to stop,” Oikawa replies, “it would be easiest for you to blame me.”

“Nothing about loving you has ever been easy,” Hajime scowls, but it’s a gentle scowl, as tender as the sweetest kiss, “but that hasn’t stopped me, has it?” Oikawa finds suddenly that he’s crying, that he can’t see Hajime’s face anymore because it’s distorted through the tears in his eyes, that his nose has started running and his mouth can’t stop quivering long enough for him to string two words together properly.

“I love you,” Hajime murmurs, “and we’re going to be together.” 

“Is this real?” Tooru finally gasps out, his voice watery, wavering. Hajime smiles.

“You tell me, Tooru.” 

Slowly, Oikawa pulls back, wipes his eyes and his nose on the sleeve of his coat, before reaching into the pocket, and pulling out a tiny Godzilla. Deliberately, he turns the key on its back, listening to the high, rapid clicks of the wind-up, and then sets the tiny monster on the hospital tray, within view of both of them. He holds on to the key for a second, and then lets it go, fingers splaying out, a release. The Godzilla makes a tiny sputter, a dying buzz of a sound—and then it falls over, jarred by the way Hajime leans forward. 

Oikawa smiles, and Hajime, his Hajime, presses a hand to his face, turns it towards his, and kisses him, sweet and slow. 

\--

The fall after Oikawa Tooru destroys his knee for the last time, Iwaizumi Hajime barges into his bedroom, a scowl on his face. 

“Get up,” Hajime says, “you’re going to class with me.” 

“Ugh,” Oikawa moans, “why would I do that?” But he lets himself be pulled up anyways, lets Hajime fuss over him and feed him and drag him to class, sitting the two of them down in the front row. He looks down at his hands—

—and looks up, at the Eiffel Tower, clouds dotting a French sky, the buildings worn down with soft, elegant lines and curves. Tooru smiles, laughs, and besides him, Hajime takes his hand, grins. His knee has stopped aching.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the professor says, gesturing up at the sky, “there’s nothing quite like a good day in Paris. It’s almost as good as a clear day in Tokyo on the Skytree observation deck.” That gets more than a couple laughs, and the professor smiles, waving for them to keep following him.

“Now then,” he says, his voice light and conversational, “can anyone tell me how we got here?”

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I can't start writing for a fandom without thinking, BUT WHAT IF INCEPTION AU. But looking at my past track record with chaptered fic -looks at my Avengers Inception AU- I knew that I was going to have to finish the whole thing before I attempted to post it if I was going to do this at all. This was also supposed to only be 2-3k long and a break from the actual longfic I'm working on, but clearly I failed in that regard. 
> 
> This may be a series. I'm not sure. I'd still like to write the Bokuaka side of the whole job, and Oikawa and Iwaizumi making their way into the dreamsharing world and Seijoh crew jobs, and there was supposed to be more Kuroken but again, I CLEARLY FAILED IN THIS REGARD. 
> 
> Thank you to Lily for betaing and letting me yell at you at all ungodly hours. 
> 
> You can find me at malcherie.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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